


Hamsters are Volatile

by RedRobotWednesdays



Series: Sticky Fingers [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arguing, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Sherlock has feelings, Slice of Life, Texting, he thinks he doesnt, it's just very domestic aright, john just kind of gives up, kind of, someone teach me how to tag, speaking of feelings, they make up, they're cute ok we love them, they're having a domestic, vague johnlock feelings, we know better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:15:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedRobotWednesdays/pseuds/RedRobotWednesdays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ARE YOU STILL ANGRY? SH</p><p>YES</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock winced; bad sign. John always signed his texts when he was in a good mood</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hamsters are Volatile

**Author's Note:**

> First fic ever so I went for something... tame. I wrote this in one go in a cafe this morning and my pen ran out three times and I don't know what I'm doing.  
> But they're having a domestic and come one, we love it when they have domestics.
> 
> Beta is betta-getta-vespa on Tumblr - thanks! All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> I hope it isn't too ooc I really feel like I should watch an episode before I go writing a fic but okay I'm done

 

 

It was too cold for this. that was the foremost thought on Sherlock's mind. Even with his greatcoat with the collar flipped up and his scarf wrapped about his neck the wind was cutting.

It was only late August for God's sake, not November.

 

 

He shouldn't even be out here, he should be at home sprawled on the couch thinking, or better yet, sprawled out on the couch thinking about a case. 

But John was mad with him. He hated when John was mad with him so he went somewhere he would not have to see it; which at the moment was on a wooden bench under a lonesome tree in London's business district.

 

The square in front of him was swarming with people, despite the biting wind and the truly ominous looking clouds. They looked busy, and important, and stressed out and late. Actually most of them looked absoloutely miserable and it warmed Sherlock's heart to see other people looking as put out as he felt.

Sherlock had deduced three cases of alcoholism, one office affair, two counts of embezzlement and one illegal immigrant before he gave up trying not to think about how it was _not_ his fault John was angry with him. If anything it was Lestrade's fault. Really what did he expect?

 

 

Sherlock had been bored. He had been _so bored_.

But not this morning; Lestrade had called early with a case. It had been a week since his last decently interesting one and Sherlock was starved for a problem and he had already dissected the human liver that had been in the freezer since May so he and John had gone to the crime scene immediatly, eagerly.

And it had been intriguing... for the first five minutes; until Sherlock had realised that the killer had been not left handed but ambidextrous which had made the whole thing woefully obvious and predictable and _boring_. So Sherlock had made a cutting remark about the average intelligence of the NSY being collectively equivalant to a sea horse or something like that and left in a huff.

 

While driving through Addington he'd changed his mind and directed the taxi to the nearest pet shop.

 

Sherlock returned to 221B with a hamster, fully intending to spend the day staving off boredom with experimenting on it. Really he was being considerate to John; he knew how unhappy it made John when he sank into one of the  Black Moods.  But something went a bit wrong and the hamster sort of... exploded. Which was disgusting. And then John got home and just made everything worse.

He was obviously already annoyed with Sherlock for leaving him behind at the crime scene (again) in the middle of nowhere, and then, coming home to hamster guts splattered all over his kitchen walls does not a happy John make.

And so when he started with " _Sherlock..._ " in that voice Sherlock had tuned him out. He knew he used that tone because he thought it made Sherlock listen but all it did was warn him that John was warming up for one of his Not Good lectures and they made Sherlock feel like a child and Sherlock hated feeling like a child because he was _not a child_.

 

 

So now here was sulking under a tree on his own surrounded by hideously boring people going out about their painfully dull business.

He wouldn't even have been out here at all if he hadn't stormed out. But he had. He'd wanted to; because John was always the one who stormed out, grumbling under his breath, yanking on his coat and stomping on the stairs. Sometimes he made so much noise that Mrs. Hudson came up afterward and looked at him sympathetically or reproachfully depending on how much she had heard of John's muttering. Either way she always made him tea, with her customary 'just this once dear, not your housekeeper' and Sherlock really didn't understand why she bothered telling him that because she didn't really believe that this would be the last time Sherlock would piss John off.

 

Anyway John was usually the one who got to walk out during their rows, mostly because Sherlock was usually either sulking in a ball in his chair or on the coach or wrapped up in his dressing gown and not really dressed to go running off down Baker Street.

This time however Sherlock had still been dressed after returning from the crime scene, sans suit jacket with his shirt sleeves rolled up. So when John started throwing lines around like "completely irresponsible" and "giant 5 year old" Sherlock had snorted at him, grabbed his coat and left with his nose in the air. He did it all; the muttering and swearing under his breath, the tugging on of his coat. He nearly strangled himself putting his scarf on too violently and stomped on the stairs so hard the bannisters shook. And really, he didn't see why John enjoyed it so much, and he must enjoy it - he did it often enough.

Going off in a strop was exhausting though; Sherlock had gone halfway to Covent Garden before he'd decided that was far enough and turned around.

 

By then it was early afternoon and though the doctor had probably calmed down by now, hamsters are very small after all, Sherlock had almost bought a rabbit, another hour or so couldn't hurt.

And so here he was; sitting by himself in the middle of the busy lunch hour decidedly _not_ pouting.

He was cold and sick of this and wanted to go back to his warm flat.

After another 40 minutes Sherlock took out his phone.

 

****

**_Are you still angry? SH_ **

 

 

He twiddled with it (not) worriedly until it beeped a minute later.

 

 

_**Yes** _

 

 

Sherlock winced. He was quite cross then; unsigned. John always signed his texts when he was in a good mood; apparantly he considered it 'playing along' with Sherlock. Which for some reason he found endearing rather than annoying (what? No.)

 

Sherlock sighed and wished for a cigarette, looking longingly toward a cluster of grey suited men who were practically invisible, so immersed in their own nicotine fog. Maybe if he just stood on the edge...

He resisted however; if he came home smelling of smoke John might actually throw the skull at him.

Sherlock sighed again. John was so annoying; he made Sherlock _feel_ things. He was making Sherlock feel _guilty,_ over a _hamster_. Ridiculous. The sides of Sherlock's mouth twitched, trying not to think about how John was sort of adorable when he was angry and (NO stop it) now he was annoyed. Why was John being so stupid? He hated when John was cross with him; it meant he wouldn't make him tea, or tell him he was brilliant, or hand him things. Worst of all he would probably make a date with whichever insipid girlfriend he was entertaining (ignoring Sherlock in favour of) this month. He would still come on cases though. With his gun. Because John was good like that. Always looking after him and - the detective shook his head and scowled, wondering at the sudden wave of homsesickness which made no sense since he had just been there less then four hours ago.

This was John's fault. He picked up his phone again.

 

 

_**When are you going to admit you over-reacted and get over it? SH** _

 

 

There. That ought to push John in the right direction; because though he was less of one than most John was still an idiot and probably didn't even realise he was blowing things out of proportion.

 

 

_**There wouldn't be anything to react to if you could scrape your own guts off the walls you know. It was a hamster Sherlock, they're not that big**._

****

**_Then why are you so mad? SH_ **

****

 

**_Piss off. It wasn't MY hamster._ **

****

 

Sherlock didn't really have a response to that so he just sat there and frowned to himself. Then his phone beeped again. He lifted it eagerly, hoping John had come to his senses, but it was just Lestrade. Sherlock hissed in annoyance and opened the message.

 

 

_**Got a murder for you. Two victims. Gunshot wounds to the head. Murderer left a note, apologising, typed, but signed by one of the victims, we know they're two seperate people. Also, he took their fingers. Oh, and Anderson has the flu. GL** _

 

 

If Sherlock were a ten year old girl he might have squealed. As it was he made a very manly noise and jumped up off the bench.

 

 

_**Murder from Lestrade. Missing finger and no. Anderson. SH** _

 

 

He pushed through the late lunch crowd impatiently. When his phone announced two new messages Sherlock had to hold his fringe out of his eyes with one hand to read them. The wind whipping his scarf about. One text was from Lestrade with the address of the crime scene. The other was from  John.

 

 

_**Sherlock, i've just finished scrubbing hamster blood off the kitchen floor. you don't really expect me to come running do you.** _

 

 

Not a question. Sherlock rolled his eyes. He made it to the side of the road and hailed a cab. Settling back into the dark leather he gave the address to the cabby and sent a confirmation message to Lestrade.

Tapping his fingers against the mobile's screen the detective decided that the quickest avenue to getting what he wanted was to apologise and then compromise.

 

 

_**I apologise for the hamster, John. As compensation for your traumatic cleaning experience I will remove the ear lobes from the toaster and dispose of the experiment I left under your bed. SH** _

 

 

Instantaneous reply.

 

 

_**That's what the smell was?! What the fu - I made toast this morning Sherlock!!!** _

 

 

Sherlock winced, that must have tasted.. odd.

He forwarded the address from Lestrade on and sat back, leaning his shoulder against the window. He wasn't sure what else he could submit to John as a peace offering. He had some other experiments stashed about the flat but they were long-term and important. When the next text came Sherlock looked at his phone somewhat warily.

 

 

_**You're a git** _

 

 

That was a good sign. He typed out a reply hesitantly.

 

__

_**Yes. See you in ten minutes? SH** _

 

 

Beep.

 

 

_**Fine. JW** _

 

 

Sherlock grinned.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :)  
> This might maybe possibly continue because now I'm interested in this finger case.
> 
> If you liked to fic I love you and come say hi to me on Tumblr :)
> 
> http://redrobotwednesdays.tumblr.com/
> 
> Beta:  
> http://betta-getta-vespa.tumblr.com/


End file.
